


Glotz mal romantischer!

by Susanoo_no_Mikoto



Category: Die Dreigroschenoper | Threepenny Opera - Brecht/Weill
Genre: Behind the Scenes, Episches Fanfiktion (if such a thing existed), Experimental Style, Multi, My attempt at Brechtian, Theater - Freeform, Yuletide 2014, meta fiction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-23
Updated: 2014-12-23
Packaged: 2018-03-01 12:22:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,009
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2772848
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Susanoo_no_Mikoto/pseuds/Susanoo_no_Mikoto
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>The Director: Repeat to me – again – what exactly our parameters for this casting call were?</em>
</p><p>
  <em>The Assistant: A novel take on a song. A sequel. A happy end, not related to "Happy End". Queer readings and innovative settings welcome, which I think this tropical island might have become, if we'd let the scene progress. </em>
</p><p>There are many readings of any text, and many rewrites of any reading.</p><p>Macheath, the killer and gangster, was friends with Tiger Brown, the sheriff of London. That is the truth. The policeman betrayed his duties for his friend, his friend for his honor, his honor for his greed. Is that the truth?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Glotz mal romantischer!

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Beth H (bethbethbeth)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bethbethbeth/gifts).



> Thanks to Alby_Mangroves for excellent beta help and Madame for great suggestions. Any remaining mistakes and errors are of course the writer's fault.
> 
> Comments always welcome.

_This is not the beginning of any particular story. But if it were the beginning of a story, such as that famous story of Mack the Knife, it would only be fitting if it began with a murder ballad._

_Thus, please let us start with a murder, a ballad, and one more moritat for Mack the Knife:_

Macheat's coffin stands on display in the church, lid nailed tight but unable to keep the stench in. Six days and counting, the coffin has awaited burial while London seeks the murderers.

The Beggar King has issued a reward to the one who dares take responsibility.  
The wives of the gangster have issued a reward to the one who brings them the killer's head.

The chief of police has not been seen since the death. But his men are following his final orders, turning London upside down, hunting for the murderer of the nobleman and millionaire.

If the riding messenger of the Queen knows anything, if he has offered a reward, if he has informed the court so high above – if he has, then no news has reached the depths of Soho.

Meanwhile Mack the Knife lies in the sun and dreams of sharks diving into the deep, invisible until they strike.

* * *

_The Director: Stop! Cut, abort, forget it._

_The Assistant, wearily: Thank you for your time. Please leave your contact information at the front desk._

_The Director: Repeat to me – again – what exactly our parameters for this casting call were?_

_The Assistant: A novel take on a song. A sequel. A happy end, not related to "Happy End". Queer readings and innovative settings welcome, which I think this tropical island might have become, if we'd let the scene progress._

_The Director, voice steadily rising: First of all, a change of costume alone is not an innovative setting. Secondly, I specified a Macheath conforming to the original character outlines! Which clearly call for Mack to be, I quote: old, short and with the face of a turnip. Yet you persist in showing me this time-wasting parade of charismatic, engaging performers for this role. There was even that first one I'd call classically handsome._

_The Assistant: I feel that these accusations are entirely unfounded. In what way was the previous example charismatic, for instance?_

_The Director, addressing the wings: Send the last guy back in! Look at him._

_The Assistant: Not classically handsome in the least. Stubble, small scars and muscles like a carpenter. Nothing of the old Hollywood glamour to him._

_The Director: Of course not. This one is far too imposing and thuglike. Nevertheless, charismatic. I'd also like to point out that using combat boots in historical settings is overdone. Entirely. It wasn't groundbreaking when I was in school; it's hardly groundbreaking matched with a tank-top and a fake palm today. Anyway – you there, act me the Cannon Song._

_The Assistant, whispering: We haven't cast a Tiger Brown yet._

_The Director: Just get me the next applicant for that role then!_

* * *

It was easy to see why the sheriff of London was called Tiger. Heavily muscled, with a penetrating gaze beneath marked brows. He moved on silent feet despite his imposing size and heavy boots, wore all black with only the shiny uniform buttons gleaming like teeth in the night.

You didn't hear the Tiger, the whispers went in Soho, you only felt the weight of his baton as he pounced. They feared him, the gangs of London, and because they feared him they tried to smear him.

He has a daughter, they said, who sleeps in a gangster's bed. Her stomach is already growing, even as the Tiger prowls the streets and arrests the whores and angle-makers.

The whispers course around the narrow alleys, lapping against the shallows of the thoroughfares and sink into the depths of opium dens and gambling holes. And there, their mettle will be tested by none less than Mack the Knife. What rumours live on and flourish? Which ones sink bloodless to the depths and die? 

His is not the face of a banker, nor the stature of a gentleman. Too tall and heavily built, with stringy brown hair and a boxer's chin, he seems born to his profession as surely as a leviathan was born to rule the depths.

Sometimes, the rumors cause Mackie to smile. Then he he puts on his white gloves and saunters out of the dark while his gang remains behind, picking obediently through their loot. 

They do the fetching and the carrying these days, they knock over heads and break kneecaps as instructed. But when the gloves come out, and the gutter swells with red, when the organ grinders add another verse to a moritat – then the boss swims on his own and his human hands and ears and feet remain behind.

Because on the hunt, sharks need only to use their teeth.

And when the source has run dry and the fire has swallowed any traces as effortlessly as the ocean harbours its deadly child, then the Sheriff of London will sit in a empty apartment. It is not his home, nor his office, though he has slept and worked there many times. But tonight he is waiting, tonight he needs to burn no reports nor change any signatures.

The Tiger waits, but it is a mistake to think him placid merely because he is at rest. The hand that taps a feather pen wrote down an execution order earlier today. A piece of scalp from a member of the Reever's gang still clings to his spike-soled boots.

"Good evening, Jackie." The gangster enters, tosses his hat on a waiting hook and pulls off his soiled gloves, dropping them in the bin without ever looking away from his target. 

"Good evening, Mackie," answers the sheriff, then conspicuously unpins his badge. "Just between us – old Alabama-John, really?"

"He smelled," Mack whispers, bending over the seated man, showing ungloved hands marked by burns and badly healed cuts.

"Smelled, Mackie?"

"Smelled. Like blood about to be shed." Mack opens the first button of Tiger's collar, slides his hand inside. "Smelled of too much trust. Haha."

"Haha." He lets his head roll back, shows teeth at Mack looking down at him. "What do you do, oh shark of Soho, if you find just enough trust?" 

"I take a bite."

Mack kisses like a robbery: sudden, intense and impossible to resist without the threat of bodily harm.

* * *

_The Director: What did I tell you? Charismatic, hard to resist. Not even close to a turnip._

_The Assistant: Oh, I don't know… although it seems to be going somewhere more X-rated than I had expected. [loudly] Gentlemen – I do believe that is enough of that. The song, please?_

* * *

"Your flesh so white…" Mack whispered. "I wonder how fast I could break it, how sweet it would sound tearing."

"You just go on wondering that." Tiger was already divested of most of his clothing, kneeling before Mack – his rightful place. "I'm the one tasting flesh now."

* * *

_The Director: NEXT!_

* * *

A cage stands in a white room. The room is filled with a fluorescent light which comes from no particular source. It clashes with the air, which smells thick of lamp oil, though there are no oil lamps to see. Both the walls and the cage, also white, are covered with an oily film. The walls still look clean from a distance. The cage is noticeably stained. It shows marks of hands and fingers, gripping too tightly. Near the open padlock, the imprint of four fingers are visible in bright red. Too bright, too fresh; it has been hours since the last prisoner left the white cage and walked towards (the gallows) a future of wealth and success. 

Through the bars, the view is dull for a prisoner. To the right and the left: white walls. In the back, another one; it's only point of interest is how it appears made of white bricks fastened with white mortar, instead of the smooth material to the sides. Seen straight ahead, through the door, begins a blinding wall of light. It has neither weight nor texture, yet stands there more solid than the (painted) bricks or the (papier-mâché) bars of the cage. For whomever sits in that cage beneath the fluorescent lights, it is as impenetrable as death. Before this void wall lies the only spot of color in the entire room, discounting the too-fresh stain of (paint) blood. It is a large pile of fabric, also bright red, with tassels of gold peeking out from among its fold. 

He, the prisoner who waited here earlier, he had an eye for gold and crimson alike. Yet he did not care for this gold, despite its solid depth of texture. Indeed, it can not be stressed enough, how incomparable it is to the the flimsy (papier-mâché) bars or the (painted) lines on the brick walls.

Through the wall, beyond the red (curtain) pile something stirs in the shadows of the void wall. Gloved hands appear. Then, born from the darkness of blinding lights, the shadow of a face, a man. He becomes real in stepping through the empty, when he stands fully in the fluorescent light. His outfit is odd: a torn shirt, white trousers and pinstriped suit jacket, also white, hanging off his shoulder. His face is stained with soot and (painted) bruises. While the man looks solid in the same way the red and gold (curtain), his clothing shares the flimsy aspects of walls, cage, oil lamps that cannot be seen. The hollows in his cheeks are paint; the dark circles beneath blue eyes are real. This man has been awake for a very long time. 

He smiles, nevertheless, as he steps over the red (curtain). It is a charming smile. His is a solid build, with large hands and muscular arms; could be threatening, but the smile turns it jovial. This is a charming man, his smile proclaims, perhaps a little simple, but friendly. Even if he walks with the languid ease of a man who found all his crimes pardoned. Even if he glances around with the spring-coil tension of a man who has seen his end approach, who was dragged to the gallows, who expected death and found wealth. So walks only one Macheath, moniker 'The Knife', the man chosen by the King to receive a miracle.

Through the shadows in the corner, where white walls meet at an angle that confuse the eyes, a second man steps. He is taller, trim and angular, wears all black. His face does not promise many smiles and inspires very little confidence. It has been caked in thick white makeup, which sets off his dark eyes and black brows. 

He is tense. It is evident in the manner in which he pulls his shoulders back. And in his hands, which he wrings without pause. In the smile that hovers between cringing servitude and genuine pleasure. The tense man in black is a policeman, one Jack Brown, moniker 'Tiger'. He nods in greeting. Nods once, nods twice; the second nod is almost a bow. When he attempts to speak, he falters immediately at the withering look from Macheath; who he has so often called friend. Who he called his dearest friend on the morning of the day in which he condemned him to the gallows. He walks slowly forward, hesitates, but does not turn away.

Through the fluorescent light Macheath stalks toward his one-time friend. Smoothly, with the steps of an hunter sighting his prey, as had he adopted the tiger-like qualities of his betrayer and left nothing to poor Jack Brown but the yellow stripes of a coward.

Macheath has a thin mustache, which he smooths down with the tip of his little finger. Brown's eyes flicker to the gesture and Macheath uses the moment to pull his hidden knife. His hand jerks up, the tip of the blade held between his fingers. It gleams like a sliver of silver, held in gloves that seem suddenly to shine with purity as had someone put a spotlight on them. He pulls his arm back, the muscles bunch, the steel does not tremble – and then he twirls it elegantly in place, flicks the edge over his thin mustache, brushes away the trimmed hairs with a smile. A killer's blade, sharp as a razor (dull as a spoon) held back and made a joke. Macheath glances back towards the empty wall and flashes a smile. It is charming, of course.

Through this Jack Brown waits in silence, fidgeting. He was once the Tiger of Soho, the terror of crime. Now he fidgets and waits. If they had their likenesses painted on the wall, gangster and policeman side by side, he would tower over Macheath. His fine uniform, the stern lines of his face; neither lend themselves to crawling. Nevertheless that is what he will do as soon as Macheath snaps his gloved fingers, so blazingly white, for that is in essence what he has been doing for years. But then he was a friend. Now he is a traitor. And there comes a snap, a gesture, a gangster's finger pointing down, down, down onto the (stage) floor.

He opens his mouth, Jack Brown who was once a tiger, but finds his roar entirely silenced. And so he only sighs, closes his his, sways and sinks to his knees. There is a watery smile on his lips when he holds his empty hands out to Macheath, when his head falls back and he bares his throat. Behind his back are only the (paper-fragile) bars of the cage. Before him only the razor-sharp (spoon-dull) mercy of the blade.

Through the echoing strides Macheath, dropping his jacket on the scuffed (stage) floor; yet another corpse left behind for underpaid hands to clean away. The muscles of his bared arms bunch together and his eyes shine with lust for blood as vivid red as the (paint) stain on the cage. He pulls the cage door open, the (papier-mâché) bars crinkling in his grip. 

He twitches his head: inside! 

Through the open door of the cage crawls the policeman on hands and knees. Macheath fingers the knife as he looks down at the black-clad shape before him, but makes no mean. He leans carefully against the (frail) cage instead, crosses his legs at the ankles; the picture of a dandy idling, lacking only his ivory-handled cane. Watches as his policeman settles in the cage. Jack Brown is too tall to stand up without his head poking through the (papier-mâché) bars. But that does not matter, for he crawls in on hands and knees, his polished shoes scraping awkwardly against the (stage) floor. He seats himself in the middle first, but Macheath shakes his head at that. So he crawls to the side, turns, presses his back against the (papier-mâché) bars. Folds his limbs together, hugs his knees and hunches his shoulders. Macheath circles him once. Reaches in, tugs his hair until Jack Brown stares straight ahead, his face in perfect profile from the doorway of the cell. 

He has not spoken throughout this, Macheath, and keeps his silence when he closes the cell door, mindful of the red (paint) stain. He admires his white, white gloves. Holds them up as before an invisible audience – no tricks, see? No tricks for Mack the Knife tonight, only clean gloves and a clean blade.

Through the bars, he inspects the Jack Brown. Observes how his fingers dig into his uniform, as were it the fabric of law itself, as was the law something he had too often felt slip through his grip. Observes the guilt that hangs around his neck, thick and heavy like the noose so recently choking Macheath's own. He circles the cage twice, then sits down back to back with his policeman, nothing but a cage of paper (the weight of mutual betrayal) keeping them apart. 

He begins a song then, does Macheath. Softly, so softly that it is hard to tell which language he is singing in, though the tune clings familiar. His voice is beautiful enough to silencing whispers, while he sings of moonlit love in the alleys of Soho. Perhaps he sings to recall what poverty tasted like or friendship meant, when (if) it was built on trust instead of mutual favours. It was only yesterday he knew how poverty tasted; it was only yesterday he thought their friendship firm. But trust evaporates quickly, though not as fast as does the memory of being poor.

Through the bars he listens, Jack Brown, policeman and betrayer. Hears the music; perhaps shares the memories. He reaches through the bars, gropes around in solence. He does not turn to look, does not move from his position. Merely reaches out a trembling hand, pale fingers dangling. And waits.

He finishes the song and lets him wait; but then all men wait for Mack the Knife and none more patiently than his (only) friend. When the fluorescent lights dim down, the golden glow of oil lamps appears, from where they have been hidden behind the brick wall. Macheath's head falls back to rest against the (papier-mâché) bars and he clasps the hand of his old friend. Squeezes it once. 

They sit there, silent, as the golden light dims away. Sit until only a white spotlight remains focused on their hands; one gloved, one bare. Until the scuffed pile of red velvet and gold tassels rises up to hide them from the unseen watchers in the void.

* * *

_The Director: Thank you for your time, gentlemen. Don't call us. We might call you._

_The Assistant: What? Why not them? It's perfectly fine Brecht, all the distancing props but with a different twist!_

_The Director: You are falling into the trap of romance, you poor thing. If you believe the narrative, if you enter the illusion of – pfah – classicism, you replicate the structures of passive consumption and anaesthetising effects of art. And, though it might strain credibility in this day and age to merely use the simplest tools of Verfremdung, such as fourth-wall breaking, revealing the machinery of the stage set or by direct address to the audience… well, it's as classical as you can handle Brecht and as trite as Shakespeare in world war settings. We need to go a little further, without falling into complete absurdism, to achieve the effect of the unlikeable causing sympathy. Think… more turnips, less elegant symbolism._

_The Assistant, in an undertone: If you keep on like this, you'll be replicating the cliché of the great artistic vision turned into empty egotism and pompous gestures._

_The Director: What was that?_

_The Assistant: Next, please!_

* * *

Mrs Macheath née Peachum arranged her skirts and settled in to wait. Mrs Macheath was awaiting the two directors in a meeting that would decide the future of her establishment. With the capital provided by her and her associates' former occupation, she had opened the bank. It was however not enough to turn the City Bank from a _business_ into an _institution_. Not with the money the Knife gang had gathered, not with the addition of Sheriff Brown's hoard of bribes.

It would take money from deeper wells than the pockets of London's poor to finance such a transformation. Such a metamorphosis would require an ocean of gold. 

Mrs Macheath inspected her powder in the mirror. She was not the director, but the second-largest shareholder. When she wished to negotiate, be it with customers, partners or creditors, she negotiated with them.

The door behind her opened. "How are we doing then? Impatient to put her fangs in a new, juicy treat?"

Mrs Macheath put down her mirror and poured two cups of tea. "You are rude today, Mr Brown, most rude." She added two sugars to his tea, one to her own then stirred the cup. 

"I beg your pardon, m'lady Captain – you must forget an old campaigner his pawky jokes, now and then." Brown bent forward and pressed a kiss to her shoulder.

"As long as your humour doesn't escape your control when our guests from Finanzbank are here," Mrs Macheath warned, still stirring her cup. "It would not do to upset my father's plans at this late date." 

"Or your husband's," Brown reminded her. "We have all worked hard to reach this point."

Finally, Mrs Macheath favoured him with a smile. "That we have, my dear Jackie. Treading the path of the solid and legal small business owner, as my dear father so often said, towards the top of the heap."

"The heap of scoundrels and failures, as your dear husband often says."

"Tch. None of that, either. We need a gentleman with military experience tonight, brimming with patriotism and duty to the tips of his white-gloved fingers."

Brown sat down, sipped his tea, and tweaked his mustache. "All that you request, you shall have, m'dear." They conversed in a most genteel manner for the following quarter hour. 

The two gentlemen from Finanzbank arrived, their bowlers pressed down upon their heads, carrying matching canes and gripping two briefcases each, bankers from tip to toe. 

Mrs Macheath greeted them and invited them to partake of the tea. Mr Brown entertained them with uplifting tales of his days serving the crown. He did not specify whether the captainship had belonged to him, or to a friend; nor was he clear regarding the timeline of all events, such as his resignation from the police or the pardon of bank director Macheath from all criminal charges. Nevertheless, his tales captivated the gentlemen. Mrs Macheath's beauty and wit also worked to cheer them enough that they within half an hour relaxed the grips on the briefcases. 

At the third chuckle from the bankers, the side door that lead to the offices opened. Mr Macheath entered. He kissed his wife, greeted his guests with handshakes, gave his fellow shareholder, Mr Brown, a clasp on the shoulder.

Now, the negotiations could begin in earnest. Mrs Macheath served tea and brandy, offered cigars and crackers. She smiled often, spoke little, but was heeded when she did. Mr Brown took notes, chuckled at the jokes, asked frequent questions and smoked a cigar. Mr Macheath smoked three cigars, asked no questions and had all the answers.

The meeting finished and the two bankers left. They now wore their bowlers tipped back. The younger swung his cane while he waited for his colleague to finish the farewells. They had arrived with four briefcases, but left with two. As they exited the City Bank they smiled like cats who have fallen into the birdcage.

"Now, such a swindle, my dears," said Mr Macheath once he was certain they had no foreign company, "such a fine game I have never played before."

"All it takes is preparation," Mr Brown said, admiring the stacks of notes in the briefcase before him.

"Preparation and a woman's touch. Don't forget that, Jackie!" Mr Macheath offered his wife an arm. "Now... A scheme such as this demands a celebration. Can I tempt you to some champagne, Polly dear?"

Mrs Macheath offered Mr Brown her arm and nodded to her husband. "Indeed," she said, the image of innocence flanked by her guardians Propriety and Honesty, "I believe that is just what I wish to be tempted with right now."

* * *

_The Assistant: What do you mean, too bourgeoisie? This is building off an acknowledged interpretation._

_The Director: Indeed, a tired interpretation. Not to mentioned it is higher regarded due to its advanced camerawork than its plot, which will hardly affect our medium. Further, while the image of reaching middle-class status and capitalist achievement in the inspiration for this scene is undermined both by the cynical words of Jeremiah Peachum –_

_The Assistant: No probs, I have a very good candidate for him lined up outside._

_The Director, sternly: As well as the audience's knowledge that their banking scheme is built on criminal foundations. Not to mention that considering the time period, the entire idea of banks became in itself fleeting illusion. We are attempting here to queer the text, yet modernize it for a less exclusive audience._

_The Assistant, in an undertone: Yeah, good luck with that._

_The Director: What was that?_

_The Assistant: Banks. Very current topic, the illusion of honesty in banks._

_The Director: Anyway, I will not work with anyone whose ideas are so shallowly tied to the surface image of a "happy" end given to those who deserve it, according to their ability to provoke sympathy. Further, this is stuck in the trappings of the tedious middle-class marriage, which goes strictly against my instructions! Now, do you have anyone who actually fits the parts I am trying to cast?_

_The Assistant, flipping through clipboard: Perhaps… at least, this is the only applicant who has suggested this song?_

_The Director: Excellent, we need a little originality. Send him in._

* * *

The heavy mists of London lift, revealing a crippled street singer. His age is near impossible to tell, what isn't hidden by his scraggly beard is covered in thick pockmarks and caked with filth.

He begins turning the handle of a hurdy-gurdy, chewing for a few turns. Then he spits out a heavy wad of phlegm and chewed tobacco, before beginning his song.

> A lone piano clinks out a familiar tune. Over-crisp tones make it hard to tell whether it has not been properly tuned, or if someone is trying to approximate an old pianoforte. 
> 
> There is a noticeable lack of sound from the hurdy-gurdy itself. Instead, a kettledrum begins a slow beat, before the brass section joins in, instrument by instrument.

* * *

_The Director: When you said original song, I didn't think you were implying a song sung by an entirely different character._

_The Assistant, frazzled: Let me check my notes._

* * *

A thin crowd, consisting of no more than six or seven humans – dressed in historical fashions spanning perhaps two hundred years – appears from the London mists.

> The chorus takes up the tune, drowning out the street singer's voice. He is still mouthing words, although careful observation shows that he spends more time showing off his truly hideous teeth, than syncing himself to what is being sung.

A prostitute, her red-blue-and-white corset covered only by a shawl, dashes over the smooth ground. A policeman, easily recognizable due to his bobby helmet, nods at her despite her illegal level of undress.

The crowd has gathered in what looks like an open square, the city lights slowly coming aglow behind them as they march forward while the mist rolls around the corners of the houses.

Two men hurry past, carrying a grandfather clock over their shoulders, nearly colliding with a fish vendor coming from the other direction. When she twirls out of the way, silently cursing them out, two of her fishes fall to the ground, bouncing against the floor.

> The arrangement, so far very slow, begins to pick up speed. The chorus marches in place in tempo with the music, not counting the two in the foreground.

For a moment, the hoarse voice of the crippled singer rises over the noise of the crowd, as though he was asking them a question.

> Everybody freezes; foreground characters as well as background chorus draw in their breaths. 
> 
> As the music swells, the crowd roars out its answer.

* * *

_The Director, impatiently: We have gone through an entire song and I am yet to spot a Mack. Considering how much we have left to do, I think this is an extreme waste of my time. [Grudgingly adds] Good decor though, maybe we can keep that. It will add a certain irony to the whole._

_The Assistant: It says in the brief that the setup is necessary for the proper contrast of his introduction._

* * *

The crowd begins to disperse, the mists of London lifting slowly. Above them, the sky darkens and a slice of moon becomes visible below the darkness of the roof. It shines brightly.

A gentleman in a cream suit, white gloves and gleaming shoes strolls onto the stage, stopping just beneath the light of the moon, casting a shadow of rainbows.

He turns his face up to face the bright moonlight, and twirls his cane.

> From the moon drops a heavy microphone; the shape and chromed surface of it brings to mind the crooners of the fifties and before.
> 
> The gloves have lines of sequins. Even more eye-catching part of the outfit are the seven inch heels, covered in glittering crystals. 
> 
> With the hook of the cane, also white, he catches the microphone and pulls it close to his face.

"Read all about it, extra sheet." A newspaper boy steps out of the crowd, waving his broadsheet. "Famous bigamist escapes from jail!" Two gossiping women slow their steps, angling their faces towards him. One of them hides her face behind her fur muff when the boy continues. "Tussle between gangster broad and policeman's daughter at Waterloo station! Read all about it here, only three penny a sheet!"

The gentleman in white snaps his fingers. When the boy comes over, he shakes his head, dropping several coins in his hand and indicates that he should open the newspaper. His mouth moves as he reads. "The flower of Soho versus the tigress cub, oh my, oh my…" 

Two dirty-faced little girls begin acting out the events as the gentleman tells the story, his voice and gestures growing more and more exaggerated as he continues. When he pulls up his trouser leg to show off his ankles, his shoes gleaming and refracting the light, two of the prostitutes swoon. A policeman hurries towards them, but becomes distracted by the spectacle of the newspaper reading. 

With a blinding grin, the gentleman in white waves him over. "They call her poverty's beauty-queen!" he thrills in falsetto. 

"Aha, hah, ha." The policeman is clearly uncomfortable and tries to grab the paper, but the crowd holds him back.

"He never could refuse them," the gentleman sings on. "Saw that ankle – ankle? Ass, certainly – and was lost!"

The policeman rolls his eyes. "Did he now?" 

"Ohh, the jailer heard him whisper…" The crowd draws closer, clearly listening in. "He found her behind provoking!"

" _Did_ he now?"

"Certainly he did! Oh, it is enough to make you split your sides!" The gentleman giggles, though the policeman hardly seems amused.

Another young man, carrying a yellow-colored newspaper sidles up to the policeman. He grabs a sheet, glaring down at the paperboy when he dares hold out his hand for money. Not even attempting a female voice, nor much of a tune for that matter, he reads from the paper.

"Fancy her as Mackie's bride!"

"Fancy them as Mackie's only wives!"

"What was that?"

"Aha, hah, hah!" The gentleman hurries on. "Let's see, let's see… The gangster and she, were like the little turtledoves (so says the paper, I am just reading)."

"He liked only to look at beauty." 

"Did he now?"

The policeman snorts. "Both claimed – oh, claimed to be the fairest in the city! Accused the others of being cat-spit and hussies, unworthy of his regard."

"Did they now?" The gentleman looks pleased. "Well…"

The policeman drops the newspaper and points with his baton at the gentleman. "Show me now those ankles, you faithless hussy."

"Oh, should I?"

"What blooms in old Soho –"

"Oh, don't ask, don't ask, you don't want to know."

"Which tiger cub slinks from your bed?"

"I wouldn't know!"

"When Mackie isn't faithful like the doves, the moon rises over Soho," the policeman says. He picks up the whistle hanging in a thin chain around his neck.

"Aha, hah, hah." The gentleman tries to sidle away, but the playing children grab hold of his coat and keep him in place begging for another song.

A loud whistle pierces the air, and the crowd freezes – only for a moment, before several policemen rush out on the open space. The children, the civilians, the prostitutes, vendors and newspaper boys: all turn to flee, pursued by the uniformed policemen. They leave the area empty, only the gentleman in white and the first policeman remaining.

"Oh, what fun to ruin my beauties from Soho!" the gentleman snarls.

"Aha, hah, hah – oh what fun, if you had truly been arrested. Mackie and she, who weren't at all like turtledoves, trapped in a cage at Waterloo…"

Twirling around once, the gentleman in white gives the policeman a blinding smile. "Jealous?"

"Hmpf, hardly. I know how to keep this shark from biting."

"Ohh, but if I promise to only nibble a little?"

> The pair exit stage left, while the orchestra repeats the refrain _largo_.

* * *

_The Assistant: Not a turnip, I admit, but a lot less understated than most of the others?_

_The Director: Hmm, true… but lacks the threatening aura. Not enough bloodthirst. It was also a bit much surface, I need more depth._

_The Assistant, clenching the notepad: Then perhaps I could have more specific instructions? I have given you ugly Mack the Knifes, I have given you elegant, fey and artificial ones – what more do you need?_

_The Director, surprised: Are you upset?_

_The Assistant: I am merely getting a little bit stressed! We have spent a considerable amount of time on this._

_The Director: Oh, don't take it personally. It's not your fault the Writer cannot provide us with characters that match my exacting needs. Unless you are the Writer?_

_The Assistant: What? No, no, I thought you were! I mean, not the **Writer** writer, he passed away long before this website opened, even a lowly Assistant is written with that knowledge. But our current writer?_

_The Director, disdainfully: Hah, I think not. Trust me, there would be a lot less shoddily inserted homoeroticism and far more references to secondary sources in that case. Some of us were conceived with a proper dramaturgical education, I'll have you know; we can tell the difference._

_The Assistant: ...so you're not the one who is going to pay me?_

_The Director: Oh? Payment? Pay. Ment. Yesss… This is a bit awkward to explain. Were you aware that we are all part of a non-monetary culture?_

_The Assistant: Pardon?_

_The Director: We are not getting paid._

_The Assistant: …_

_The Director: Nor are the actors, if that's any comfort. However! I feel this has been a very giving discussion, and I think I have a few new ideas for our next scene. If you could send in number, let me see, here…_

_The Assistant: Whoever is still around, you're bloody hired!_

* * *

Macheat's coffin stands on display in the church, lid closed, but a fetid stench still filling the church. It had stood there for six days, while most of London searched for his killers. 

The riding messenger of the King had issued a reward to the one who caught the responsible. The wives of the gangster had made it clear that they would carve out their revenge in the flesh of Soho and Whitechapel gangsters, robbers and knifemen unless one of them coughed up a few leads. The Beggar King had taken a temporary leave of absence, leaving his wife to protest his innocence in the matter.

If the chief of police knew anything, or had offered a reward, the news of that had entirely surpassed the depths of Soho. His officers were out on the street though, looking in every corner and bothering honest criminals day and night, so most assumed that the boys in blue were looking at a sweet promotion if they solved the crime, and merely kept mum about it to stop others from interfering. No honor at all, the pigs.

Meanwhile Mackie sat in the shade and sipped his frothy drink. He considered the body before him, red spreading over the pale skin in a worrying way.

"Hey," he finally said and poked Jackie in the ribs. "Turn around, or you'll get a worse sunburn than in India." 

His policeman grumbled something about sharkfish, then continued snoring. Mackie considered his drink. It was still nice and icy… 

THE END


End file.
